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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Solona and Alistair didn’t really get another chance to talk the following day. Most of their time was spent fighting off ever increasing bands of darkspawn. To make matters worse, Alistair was reduced to using his spare blade so that Solona could wield his favored weapon. At first, he was reluctant to allow the mage to utilize his sword during battle, but she was insistent and after the comradery they shared the previous evening, he was afraid to muck things up by telling her no.

During their first encounter of the day with the creatures, the warrior ensured he was never more than a foot or two away from Solona’s back, just in case she needed him. She impressed him with her ability to swing the blade effectively with one hand and cast spells with the other. She had obviously taken his lessons to heart and even began adopting her own fighting style. He still never strayed too far from her in the subsequent battles, but he was no longer as distracted by his worry over her safety.

By the time they found a cave for shelter at the edge of the cliffs, it was well past dark and everyone was too exhausted for conversation during supper. Because they were without another large bolder to use to seal the entrance to the cavern, Alistair was put on first watch for the evening. When he returned to his bedroll after Sithig relieved him, Solona was already fast asleep.

The next day was even more difficult than the last. The closer they got to Ostagar, the larger in number the darkspawn grew. It wasn’t until the ruin finally came into view that they were able to relax a bit. The king’s men and the Wardens who were already present had set up a perimeter around the old fortress leaving only a few small groups of stragglers here and there.

When they stepped through the broken archway, the four Grey Wardens were greeted by a face Alistair knew all too well. King Cailan was the picture of royal ostentation in massive, gold plated armor with black and red trim. The chestplate was adorned with the head of a dragon molded into its front, and the pauldrons were enormous, gaudy things which looked a bit like gigantic wings protruding out to the level of his ears. The bangs of his honey blonde hair were pulled back tight, held together by two small, perfectly woven braids on either side of his head. The remainder of his smooth tresses hung loosely down his shoulders and back. The haughty expression he wore when he stepped forward to greet them could have put Solona to shame. Overall, Alistair thought he looked like a first-class prig.

The king plastered on his best fake smile. “Greetings, Duncan,” he exclaimed as he took the commander’s wrist. “How fare you, my friend?”

Alistair had serious doubts that the pompous ass would be friends with anyone like Duncan. It was obvious he considered himself to be better than everyone around him. It was certain the king regarded himself as a better man than Alistair .

Still the same prat you were at twelve, aren’t you brother?

“I am doing well, your Majesty,” the older Warden replied. “How goes the battle?”

Cailan flashed a toothy grin. “Very well,” he answered “Very well, indeed. We’ve beaten the creatures back successfully every night, and I expect this evening’s battle to be even more promising.” He paused a moment to scan the faces of his soldiers. “We have the finest army in all of Thedas here, and with the mighty Duncan returned to lead the Grey Wardens at my side, we will be unstoppable.”

Not just an ass, but an idiot to boot. Great.

The commander’s face grew serious. “Your Majesty,” he began, but Cailan was already breezing past him.

“And these are your new recruits?” the king questioned as he stopped before Sithig. His eyes slowly moved up the larger man’s chest plate until they met the Avvar’s. He was forced to crane his neck in the effort. “You’re certainly a big one.” He grinned back at his men. “Perhaps I should let him lead the charge and give those ogres a run for their coin.” He returned his attention back to Sithig only to be greeted by a deep scowl. Cailan’s smile widened as he clapped the Avvar on the bicep. “I jest, my friend. You are Avvar, correct?”

“Aye,” Sithig replied, the grimace never leaving his face. “Leastwise I was born Avvar.”

“The backbone of all of Ferelden,” Cailan continued as if the larger man had said nothing. “The Avvar are a proud and noble race. I realize our peoples have our past differences, but I think we can put those aside to fight this menace together. Don’t you…what was your name again?”

“Sithig,” the behemoth grunted.

“Yes,” the king grinned. “That was it.”

He didn’t even tell you before now. Maker fucking jackass.

Alistair couldn’t keep the smirk from his face at that thought. Being around Solona was definitely beginning to rub off on him. He ran his tongue across his lips then clenched them between his teeth.

When Cailan stepped in front of Solona, the smile he wore transformed into a salacious leer. “Aren’t you lovely?” he asked as he took her hand and placed a light kiss on her knuckles.

Not taken in by the king’s attempt at charm, Solona’s face contorted into a look of confusion. When the man’s eyes slowly trailed up her body before meeting hers again, Alistair was ready to break his nose.

Quit ogling her you stupid fuck.

“It just occurs to me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in the Grey Warden ranks before. I’ve seen pictures, of course, but none of those women were as ravishing as you,” Cailan observed with a slight wink.

For the Maker’s sake, can’t somebody shut him the fuck up?

Solona cocked a contemptuous brow. Alistair knew that expression all too well. She was most decidedly unimpressed.

“Is that so?” she questioned in an acerbic tone. Alistair shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in his excitement to witness the mage put the king in his place. “Your Majesty,” she addressed him with an icy glare. “I am here as a Grey Warden. Nothing more, nothing less. I have fought through dozens upon dozens of darkspawn to get here. I am as hearty and as fit as any man on this field. No disrespect to you or your crown intended, but just because I happen to have breasts does not mean I am some giggling girl to be taken in by your flirtatious words, smiles, winks, or kisses on the hand. So…Why don’t you do us both a tremendous favor, and stop thinking of me as a woman and pretend I’m just another soldier ready to fight and die for my king? Hmm?”

Alistair had to stifle a laugh as he bit down harder on his lips. Duncan appeared to be absolutely appalled. He advanced to Cailan’s side in two wide steps.

“I apologize, your Majesty,” he said with a low bow.

Cailan just chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “No need, Duncan. If the young lady…soldier fights as well as she hurtles insults, the darkspawn won’t survive the night.” His lids narrowed as he scrutinized the mage. “I don’t believe I caught your name, however.”

“It’s Solona, your Majesty,” she replied. “Solona Amell.”

“From the noble House of Amell in the Free Marches?” he queried.

“Yes,” she answered.

The king shook his head with a loud tsk. “Shame about the Amells, really. They were quite prosperous back in their day.” Solona’s face languished into somber confusion. Alistair discerned that whatever happened to the mage’s family was unknown to her. Cailan clapped a fist to her bicep with a smug smile. “But don’t worry, soldier. I’m quite sure you can bring honor back to the Amell name.”

Alistair’s fingers tightened into fists, and his chest began to rise and fall with short, labored pants. His jaw clenched in anger as his tongue slid across his lips.

You son of a bitch!

The young Warden glared at the king when he stopped in front of him. He began to estimate how much time he would spend in the cage for knocking the prat on his ass. Even if he rotted in the damned thing, it might be worth it just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his brother’s face.

Cailan studied the younger man for a long moment. Alistair could see in those steel blue eyes that the king was attempting to discern where he knew the Warden from. It wasn’t as if the two men grew up together. Alistair had only met Cailan once, and that was nearly thirteen years before that day.

No one would have ever suspected Alistair was a prince of Ferelden, the youngest child of the late King Maric Theirin. Although he was a prince, he was never treated as one. From an early age, it was always made very clear to Alistair that he was nothing. Cailan was the rightful heir to the throne of Ferelden, and Alistair was just a bastard born of an indiscriminate affair their father had with a servant while visiting Redcliffe Castle. Even if the king did eventually recognize Alistair, he was sure Cailan would rather pretend his half-brother never existed at all.

“Ho, friend,” the king said with an uneasy smile. “You seem very familiar to me. Is it possible we have met before?”

Alistair smirked, but there was no mirth in his hazel-green eyes. “Yes, your Majesty,” he replied in an acrid tone. “In Redcliffe. Many years ago.”

Cailan’s lids constricted further. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”

“Alistair,” the young Warden answered.

The king’s smile dropped and his blue eyes widened with awareness. He held the stare for only a few seconds before his expression changed to stone, then reverted back to a tight-lipped smile.

That’s right, you smug bastard. Surprise.

Cailan shrugged in an attempt to play it cool and forced a slight chuckle. “Well, who knows? Anyhow, I am glad you are here. Every Warden is needed now, and I’m sure they will benefit greatly having you among their ranks.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to have your approval,” Alistair said with a caustic inflection as he flourished a garish bow. “Your Majesty.”

As incensed as Solona was after her encounter with the King of Ferelden, it didn’t compare to Alistair’s foul mood. He was beyond agitated. He was downright angry. Something had happened just inside that archway the mage couldn’t quite put her finger on. She considered that her companion’s foul mood might have been a result of the king’s treatment of her, but he seemed irritated before Cailan even spoke to Sithig.

The mage had every intention of getting the truth from her fellow Warden. Later. She knew well the expression he bore. It was one she had worn herself many times over the years. Usually, she didn’t care how he would react to her questioning, but she wasn’t stupid. She understood when to leave well enough alone, and as red-faced and huffy as Alistair was at that moment, she knew he needed both time and some space. He was a kind man, but he apparently had a tremendous temper.

By the time they reached the other side of the long bridge to the main part of the fortress, Alistair seemed to have cooled off a bit. Instead of stomping along, he was walking at a much more normal pace. His usual color had returned and his eyes had reverted to their typical shade of hazel-green from dark brown. When he turned to speak to her, however, he was still sulking.

“So, what did you think of that little meeting?” he asked with an embittered tone.

Solona raised her left brow. “I think the man is a pig.”

Alistair chuckled then displayed a sardonic expression. “He is royalty, you know,” he reminded her.

“Then he’s a royal pig,” the mage stated, her expression unchanging.

Her fellow Warden snorted. “That may be the best description I’ve heard of him yet.”

Against her better judgement, Solona decided to go ahead and inquire about Alistair’s distaste for the king. “So may I ask what got you so wound up back there?”

His face became dark once again. “No,” he replied before speeding his pace and walking away from her.

She considered following after him, but decided it really was best if she left him alone. Instead, she made her way to the quartermaster’s tent on the other side of the camp, right where Duncan said it would be. The commander had given her half a sovereign that morning before they packed up to leave so she might buy her own sword. After using Alistair’s, she knew just what to look for in a blade and exactly what she wanted.

After haggling with the man for more than fifteen minutes, she finally talked him down to a reasonable price and walked away with a brand new sword, a back scabbard, a handful of lyrium potions and a few coppers left in her pocket. On her way to find her companions, she was greeted by a man she didn’t know dressed in the blue and grey.

“You’re Solona, right?” he asked with a thick, rich Rivaini accent and a friendly smile.

The Warden wasn’t an altogether unattractive man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with a dark tan and black hair that curled into large ringlets an inch or so below his ears. The corners of his mouth and grey eyes were marked with deep lines from a mixture of hearty laughter and spending too much time in the sun. A long scar from an old gash ran across the left side of his scruff-covered square jaw. He wore the same plate and scale Alistair sported, denoting him as a warrior. Solona mused that he must have been a raider or mercenary in his former life. He just had that look about him.

“I am,” she answered in her typical haughty tone.

“The commander asked me to fetch you,” he explained. “We have to get you fitted for your uniform before the battle tonight.”

Without waiting for any response from the mage, he pivoted on his right heel and walked toward a set of stone steps on her right. Solona fell in behind him, noting a slight limp in the man’s gait as he made his way to the stairs, something most likely earned in one of the nightly battles against the darkspawn. As they ascended the steps, he addressed her from over his shoulder.

“I’m Tovi, by the way,” he informed her. “We don’t get a whole lot of gifted in the Wardens, so we have quite a few mage’s uniforms in the stockpile. With your height, you should be fairly easy to fit with a few minor alterations here and there to allow for your curves.”

For the first time since reaching adolescence, Solona was actually grateful for her statuesque build. At five feet nine, she stood several inches taller than most women in Thedas, a condition which she abhorred. In the tower, other women were forever asking her to reach for books on high shelves while she was perusing the library. Senior Enchanter Rachel was the worst offender. The old crone always opted for Solona’s aid in obtaining the vials from the uppermost cupboards in her classroom in lieu of seeking the assistance of one of her male counterparts. But her biggest difficulty in regards to her stature came from Anders. It was well known in the tower that he preferred women far shorter than his six and a half foot frame. Solona couldn’t count the amount of times she saw him give his most rapt attentions to females much smaller than herself. Subconsciously, she reached up and folded her fingers around the templar amulet nestled between her breasts upon the ideation of her former lover.

“That other one, though,” Tovi continued. “He’s going to be a lot more difficult. The tailor and the smith are going to have to work the rest of the afternoon to finish his on time. I just hope we have enough materials.”

“So you’re not a garment maker, then?” she asked.

He chuckled. It was not a caustic or sullen laugh inherent to most battle-hardened warriors, but clear and blithe like it came from someone who was genuinely content with his lot in life. Growing up in the Circle, it was a sound rarely heard by the mage from anyone over the age of eleven or twelve.

“Hardly,” he replied. “I got wounded a few days ago, so I’ve been assigned light duty until my leg has a chance to recover. The healer they brought from Kinloch offered to help, but there are men far worse off than me that could use her attention. No need wasting good mana on such trifles.”

Solona sped her pace so she could walk at his side. “You seem to know a great deal about mages,” she observed. “Most mundanes don’t have a clue what mana is.”

The older Warden shrugged. “My gram was a healer. Saw her wiped out more than once from mana drain after a hard case. Nearly kill herself at times. She was a good one, my gram.”

“So your grandmother was an apostate?” Solona asked with surprise.

“I suppose your Chantry would call her that,” he replied with another shrug. “Things worked a bit differently back in Rivain. We never took much stock in the Maker or any such nonsense.” He stopped and waggled his head before heaving a resolved sigh. “Sorry about that. I know mainlanders are usually devout folk. I didn’t mean any offense by it.”

Solona smirked. “Trust me, I am not offended. Personally, I think most of its rubbish myself.”

Tovi nodded then continued his procession forward. “I should have known a mage from the Circle might see things a bit differently than the rest of these people.”

Beyond the holding cages lay the Grey Warden encampment. Small tents akin to the one rolled up on top of Solona’s pack were arranged in several neat rows with linear paths running between them. A wider walkway extended down the center, leading to a series of larger tents and awnings with canvas of blue and grey.

Tovi led Solona to one of the open coverings on the left where a bare-chested, burly man was engaged in flattening sheets of steel with a heavy smithing hammer out front. A blonde elf wearing a blue tunic bearing the image of a grey griffon on its front appeared from inside. In his hand, he carried a long, knotted, measuring rope and a clipboard with an inkwell attached to its top right corner. When he approached Solona, he grinned up at her, affording her a view of the prominent gap between his oversized front teeth.

“Spectacular!” he exclaimed in a high pitched voice before peering over at Tovi. “She’ll be a lot easier to fit than the last one. Might as well ask me to sew a cover for a mountain.

“I’m not sure they didn’t,” the other man jested.

The elf chortled as he returned his attention to the mage. “Name’s Senren,” he told her as he began running the rope down the length of her right side. “This’ll only take a minute.”

Senren worked quickly and quietly, checking each measurement twice and writing the figures down on the parchment attached to the clipboard. When he finished measuring the mage’s frame, he bent down and yanked her foot from her boot.

“Hey!” Solona shrieked as she caught her balance.

“Sorry,” the elf apologized while stretching the rope across the side of her foot. “But you’ll need new boots, too. These are just ghastly.”

“Ugh,” the mage groaned. “So I have to break in another pair of boots?”

Senren gave a dismissive shrug as he penned several numbers. “Afraid so. It’s all part of the uniform.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “When will the infernal thing be ready?”

“Yours should be relatively easy,” he replied, “but the guy ahead of you is going to take a while.” He pursed his lips as he concentrated a moment. “I’d say...late afternoon. Before dusk, of course, we can’t have you fighting off all those darkspawn in…” He grimaced as he waved his hand up and down to indicate his distaste for her attire. “Whatever that is.” He waggled his head with a tsk. “Where in Andraste’s name? Darling, you should sue…seriously.”

“She just had to fight her way through all those spawn to get here, Senren,” Tovi informed him with a creased brow. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care how she looks right now.”

The elf rolled his eyes. “Of course she cares, Tovi. Didn’t you notice the makeup?” He huffed an animated sigh. “You don’t know the first thing about women, do you?

The Rivaini man flashed a toothy grin before smacking the elf on the buttocks. “Don’t need to. My thoughts are too occupied with your ass.”

Senren gave a playful slap to Tovi’s bicep. “Don’t tease, love. I have too much work to do.”

The other man gave his lover a saucy wink. “Just giving you some ideas for later.” He then turned to Solona. “Duncan wants you to meet him by the fire at the center of the main camp. Would you like for me to show you where it is?”

“No,” she answered, attempting to stifle a chuckle. It’s not that Solona thought there was anything particularly humorous about the exchange. The behavior of the two men didn’t even surprise her. Maker knows Anders had his share of male lovers. It was just a bit odd to find such an enamored couple in the midst of such a terrible and gloomy place. In truth, she found it both refreshing and endearing.

She took a minute to regain her usual countenance. “I think I can find my way on my own.”

“Fare thee well, then,” Tovi said with a fist clapped to his heart. “Perhaps we shall meet again on the field of battle. Until that time, may the good spirits guide you.”

The mage answered his salute with one of her own. The gesture felt entirely odd and foreign to her. It was an action she had witnessed the templars perform hundreds of times over the years, but she never imagined there would come a day she would imitate such a thing herself.

As she made her way back to the central part of the camp, it finally hit Solona like a ton of bricks. She was a soldier about to fight in a war against vile and horrendous creatures with no ambition beyond the destruction of everything in their path. A gnawing, twisting pain churned in her gut. This was real, and there was no turning back.

Alistair had quite the chip on his shoulder in regards to his family. I can’t really say that I blame him, though. The most important lesson he learned from the meeting with Cailan that day was how to temper confidence in the abilities of his troops with just a bit of humility. The one thing he never wanted to be was Cailan, and he spent a good deal of his reign trying to prove he wasn’t his brother.

Solona always said that was the day the Blight, and what it meant, became a reality for her. She made the decision that she would put all she had into the duty given to her. Being a Grey Warden was extremely important to Solona, at least for a time. It was the moment she chose to take responsibility for something much bigger than herself. Even after her time with the Wardens was over, the call to be more is one she still gladly answers.

-G
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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight